Mise En Place
by madameoctopus
Summary: Mise en Place. Everything in its place. It is the overarching philosophy of professional cooking and the guiding force in Bella's life. What happens when someone steps in and reminds her that sometimes even the best Mise en Place can go to hell?
1. Day in the Life

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters belong to the SMeyer. I'm just playing.**

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><p>4:15 am.<p>

Alarm.

Moan. Turn over. STOPTHENOISE.

On my feet. Bathroom. Mirror. Washcloth. Toothbrush.

Makeup? Not for Starbucks. Shower? Later, after my nap. Contacts? Seriously? Before 5 am? What do you think this is? But fuck, where are my glasses?

Found them.

Hat. Apron. Purse. Keys. Lock the door. Find the car. (Did I park it in the garage? Under the carport? Close to the door? Why don't I make a note of this when I park it?)

Found it.

Ignition. Reverse. Wait of gate to open. Blinker. Highway. Exit Ramp. Red light. Another Red light. What time is it? Am I late? Stupid lights. Why do I never take into consideration the lights?

Siren sign. Blinker. Parking lot. Park. I'm early. Wait for the manger. Is that his bike with the ridiculous light? Yes.

In the store. Answer his pointless "How are you?" With an "Awake." I'm on pastry case. Make it pretty. Make it fast. There's still coffee to grind.

Put on my Apron. 5:00 am. Open the door. 10 people walk in. I'm on bar. Grande 2 splenda Latte. Doppio over ice. Venti 5 pump chai, 2 pump caramel, nonfat Chai Latte. Venti Bold, Room. Tall Americano, no room. Ice Venti 2 pump Mocha Americano. Grande no foam Latte and a Grande Pike in a Venti double Cup. Venti Iced Coffee, no sweetner. Grande decaf, 2 pump, Skinny Vanilla Latte. Venti Soy Latte.

Shit, Venti Soy Latte is hot. Why does he have to see me at 5:05 in the morning when I look like hell warmed over? I can look good. People have said so. But not this early, not on 3 hours of sleep. What color is his hair anyway? Red? Brown? Coppertone Baby? Whatever, it's fantastic. Did he say something to me? I think he did. I smile. Answer him with a semi-coherent sentence that I don't really remember. It must have made sense though, because he laughed. Seriously, why is he so awake right now?

He's out the door.

A lull. Coffee time. Iced grade cup. 2 pumps mocha, 1 pump sugar-free vanilla, 1 pump sugar-free hazelnut, 6 shots of espresso, splash of nonfat, ice. No lid. Drink it in one gulp. Iced coffee in the same cup. Lid. Straw. I'll fill it back up at least 4 times during my shift. I almost feel human.

The morning rush. I'm awake now. Alice walks in, apron already on, looking like she actually showered before coming to work. Hate her. We joke with customers, sing, and call the drinks. I'm an espresso machine. What do you need? A 2/3 decaf, triple Grande soy, 3 splenda, no foam, extra hot Latte? Got it. Milk, splenda, espresso, let the foam settle, free pour. Perfect.

What, you need a Venti red eye with 6 honeys and four inches of cold soy? Fine. But you know your drink is stupid right? 6 honeys? Seriously? That is a shit ton of honey. And you want me to put it in? You know you're the reason the next 10 people will have to wait for their drink, right? You have to cut honey packets. CUT THEM. That means finding a scissor, finding the honey, getting the honey in the cup. Why don't you just keep a honey bear in your car? And 4 inches of soy? You are barely drinking coffee. Your drink is just honey and milk. Executive decision. 4 honeys. 2 inches of soy. Listen, I'm doing you a favor.

Venti black coffee. You're my hero.

4.45 hours later. Clock out. Drive four miles. Park on the street. Change hat and apron. Pastry time. Walk into the Sun kitchen. The boys are already there. Hi Riley, Hi Garrett, Hi Alec. Como Estas? Bien, bien.

Go to the fridge. What needs to be made? Brioche, lemon cream, Chocolate Pot de Crème. I also need to bake off some of the Cardamom cookies I made yesterday and do I quick inventory so Chef knows what to order for next week. How much time to I have before school? 4 hours? Doable.

Start the brioche. Weigh the flour, eggs and yeast. Warm the milk. Mix in the Hobart. Let the sponge rise for 45 minutes.

Move on to the lemon cream. Squeeze the lemons, weigh the eggs, sugar, water. Set up the double boiler. Whisk like crazy. Sweating. It's at 180 degrees. Let cool.

Set up the pot de crème. Melt chocolate under warming lamps of the line. Best. Short. Cut. Ever. Tempers the chocolate perfectly and I can forget about it. Heat the heavy cream. Add brown sugar and cinnamon sticks. Let steep for 30 minutes.

Add more flour and eggs to the brioche sponge. Add sugar and mix. More flour. Let the Hobart do its thing for 30 minutes.

The lemon cream is at 140. Pour the mixture into Kitchen Aide. Small dice 3 pounds of butter. 1 pound for the lemon cream. 2 pounds for the Brioche. Turn on Kitchen Aide and slowly incorporate butter.

Butter time for the brioche. Turn up the speed on the Hobart and start slowly added the butter. While I am feeding butter to the cream and bread gods I strain the heavy cream pot de crème mixture. I stir I the melted chocolate and slowly pour the mixture into a pot de bomb so I don't scramble the eggs. I strain it again into a container and put it in an ice bath and label it. It will need to cool and sit over night before I can bake it off.

Lemon cream is done. Container. Ice bath. Label.

The brioche is looking good. The butter is incorporated. It is a sticky, shiny, and glorious mass of bready goodness. I clean and sanitize my station, flour the surface and wrestle it out of the Hobart. Weigh out 4 loaves and 10 buns. Cover with a moist towel and put them by the oven. I ask Garrett if he can deflate them and put them in the walk-in for the third overnight rise. He says "Si." He knows the drill.

Cookies? Baked. Inventory? We need yeast and vanilla.

Done. God, I'm good.

1 pm. School. Change into school chef whites. It's a service day. Finishing Buffalo Tar Tar, Grilled Vegtable salad with bulgar wheat, Lamb Provencial, and Mustard Green Ravoli. My team is killing it, as always. We even managed a break. I sneak a 10-minute nap. I present. (I always present). I eat. Is this the first time I ate today? No I totally stole an Asiago Cheese Bagel from Starbucks. Mom would be so proud.

5pm. Home. 1 hour nap. Shower. Contacts. Minimal make up. New chef whites. Drive 10 miles. Walk into a different kitchen. Eclipse this time. Service is on full blast. I'm Swing tonight so I call "What do you need?" Sauté is the first one to respond. Jump next to him. Read tickets. Hanger steak for table 45. Halibut for 34. Salmon and Chicken 33. Catch him up. Call again. Brick oven this time. Weeded with 6 pizzas. Throw some dough. Assemble some pies. Catch him up. Call again. Chef needs me to run food to the dining room. Where is Brianna? Sick. Again? Yes. I run the food. Table 23.

Well, fuck me sideways. It's Venti Soy Latte. Well, at least I have make up on this time. But I have also been up for almost 18 hours even with my naps. I'm sort of delirious.

He says, "I told you I'd stop by."

I stand there with my mouth open.

He says, "The pizza looks good."

Time feels as if it is suddenly standing still. I can't remember the last time that happened. People seem to suddenly stop moving, stop asking me for things, stop being people I need to feed, caffeinate, impress or help. All I saw was his green eyes and his lopsided smile. All I heard was his sweet, honeyed voice asking me questions that I apparently have lost all capability of answering.

He says, "Here's my number. I know your really busy, but give me a call."

No. He. Just. Didn't. Things like this didn't happen to me. I was too busy, too focused, too…

Still standing there with my mouth open.

Where's my sass? Fuck, I have been in a kitchen with horny guys for most of my day. I am exceptional at talking to the male species. Sure, it's mostly in broken Spanish, prefaced with "Fuck," "Shit," or "Dude" and finished with "Asshole," "Douche," or "That's what she said." But I have wiles. I have confidence. Where the hell did I put it?

Found it.

"Baby boy, I get off at 12. If you're still around, I'll consider getting the bartender to comp you a drink."

We stare at each other for a minute. Or 12 years. I can't tell. This is the slowest I've moved in 2 years. He smiles and says, "I'll be here."

Heavy. Fucking. Sigh.

Go back into the kitchen. Hyperventilate for 15 seconds before I call. They need me on the app station.

I guess today is going to be even longer than usual. At least I don't have Starbucks tomorrow.

9 am is sleeping in. Right?

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><p><strong>AN: So, what do you think?**


	2. Venti Soy Latte

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters belong to the SMeyer. I'm just playing.**

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><p>I've always woken up at 4:15 in the morning. It started when I was a freshman in high school and trying desperately to make the Varsity track team. I would get up before school and the sun to just run and run and run. I did eventually make the team, but after I left high school running just became exercise and not an all-consuming need. I stopped running when it was still dark outside, but could never stop waking up at 4:15am.<p>

It was something that came in handy when I got to college. Pre-law was hard work, lots of books, lots of papers, and lots of memorization. I would get most of my work done before my 9am class, which would leave me free do my share of partying during the inhibition shattering, passionate, stupid nights that define the college experience.

I eventually grew out of the parties as well. Law school was actual work; the type of work that couldn't be completed between the hours of 4am and 9am. Sure, there were still parties, still stupid nights, but they were less frequent, less ill-advised, and quite frankly, way less fun. I accepted it. I was growing up, following my dreams and getting everything I ever wanted.

And it was great, for a while anyway. I got a job at my father's law firm—Mason, Denali, and Hale. I caught the eye of one of the partners—Hale, not my dad, that was an important distinction for me—and started to really delve into the type of meaningful law that I always wanted to mold and change. Case law. Precedent. Second chair. The types of cases that got you noticed. And it was great. Really great. Totally great.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The first sign that things weren't going as great as I was trying to convince myself was the day I slept until 5am. I wasn't late, of course, but I was tired. Like I haven't slept in years. I hadn't felt like that since middle school. I dragged myself into the shower and into a suit and then out the door. After my ninth yawn, I decided to stop at the Starbucks on my way to work. Needing caffeine was another sign that something wasn't right with me. When was the last time I needed coffee to wake up? Never, that's when.

I parked, yawned and opened my car door. That siren was seriously calling to me. There was a line when I walked, not long, but at least 7 deep. I yawned again and looked at the board where all of the Grande-this, Venti-that, Tall-whatchamacallit were listed and decided to just get a coffee. Who needed all of that crazy milk stuff when all that was needed was a straight pick-me-up?

But when I got the register, something happened. A noise made me look to my right, away from the girl at the register and at the girl behind the espresso machine. She was gorgeous. I mean, obviously she was not looking her best right now. The hat, the apron, the bags that were visible under her glasses, and that slightly scowly look on her face were not the most flattering, but you could tell that she had this natural, easy beauty that didn't need make up, clothes or even sleep to be beautiful.

"Sir? What can I get for you today?"

I looked at the girl at the register and then at the girl behind the espresso machine. She looked at me then, her brown eyes tired and exquisite. Then I heard myself say, "Venti Soy Latte." Did I even like Venti Soy Lattes? Was that what the girl in front of me ordered? Where did that come from?

Espresso girl said, "Venti Soy Latte." She pulled a cup from below the counter, flipped it into her hand, pulled a grease pencil from her hat, wrote on the cup and put it on the machine. She poured soy milk into a pitcher and placed it under the steam wand. She watched it steam for a couple of seconds before she pressed a button and watched the espresso pout. There was no wasted movement, no unsure motions, just short, succinct, efficient motions to reach one ultimate end.

It was beautiful.

"Sir? Sir!" I looked at the girl at the register. Her head jerked to the right. "Bella will have your drink ready at the bar in a moment."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Sorry." I could have sworn she smiled at me. Register girl was freakishly happy for this time in the morning. And short. She was really, really short. But it was then that I heard "Venti Soy Latte!" Being called to my right. I looked over and saw Espresso girl—Bella—place my drink on the bar. I took it, smiled at her and walked out. I think I was imagining it, but the cup felt warmer where her hand was and I swear that when I took a sip of the drink it was something akin to ambrosia.

The rest of the day I felt restless. Like I wasn't comfortable in my own skin. I couldn't concentrate on my work and actually asked my father to leave early. It wasn't a lie. I didn't feel well, but it wasn't an illness—it was a sickness. A soul sickness. I walked out of Mason, Denali, and Hale that day and never walked back in. I spent three weeks alone in my apartment—besides leaving at 5am for a Venti Soy Latte—dodging my father's calls and thinking about what I should do next. And then one day, without warning, while driving to my totally-not-obsessive daily trip to Starbucks I saw a billboard advertising Pro Bono work for those who were affected by the new freeway being built on the east side of the city.

I'd heard of the legal problems going on over the freeway. A lot of perfectly solid houses were being condemned by the city and seized as eminent domain. A lot of people were losing their homes for the sake of "progress" and had no money to fight the type of legal battle that the city is planning on waging. If they were advertising for clients, I'm sure they needed lawyers too. Was 5:15am to early to stop by the offices? Probably. Plus there was only a phone number on the billboard. I took a picture of it with my phone and kept driving to see my Espresso girl. When I walked in today there was a line about ten deep. I got on at the end and fought my joyful jig when I saw her working behind the espresso bar.

Something felt different today. Usually I just smiled at her and said thank you when she handed me the Venti Soy Latte. But today—today—is the day I'm going to say something to her. Maybe it's the sign I saw on the way here, but things seem better today. New. This morning was the exact opposite of all of the mornings I had experienced at my father's firm.

This was it. I was going to talk to her today. Nothing could stop me.

I ordered my drink at the register and watched the exchange between Bella and the guy at the register. I could have sworn when she repeated "Venti Soy Latte" she glanced in my direction. I hurried over to the drink handoff and beamed at her.

"Hi there." Oh. GOD. Hi there? That's what I come up with for my triumphant moment? But, wait. She's looking at me. That's good right? But she looks confused. I need to elaborate. I'm a lawyer, I can do that. Elaborate, I mean.

"I just realized that I only see you at 5 in the morning. What do you do with the rest of day?" Okay. That wasn't that bad. Not quite smooth, but totally acceptable.

She looks at me for a moment before she called back another drink to the front register, flipped a cup up and wrote the complicated Starbucks code on the cup. I swear I saw a smile, but she is lost in the mechanical world of making drinks for a second. I don't think she is ignoring me, but I have definitely lost her. She is working after all and may be totally messing up her flow. Also, I realize that I am one of the few people that actually like to get up this early in the morning. She may just be lost in her own world.

I'm going to have to do something drastic. I'm just going to go for it. As she hands me my drink I say, "I only ask because I was wondering if you were free for a drink tonight. I know this great wine bar up in the Heights that serves some great food. I was thinking maybe we could—"

I stop because she is looking at me with a much more focused look than I have ever seen before. "Are you talking about Eclipse?"

I smile. "Yeah. You know it?"

She laughs at that. It is just a quick thing, but it is full of humor and it transforms her obviously exhausted face into a thing of unearthly beauty. Still smiling, looks away for a moment to hand out the next drink. When she looks back at me the smile is still there. I swear, my heart is soaring. "Know it? Baby boy, I work in the kitchen there. It is one of my 19 jobs. I'm there tonight from 7-12."

It is my turn to laugh now. "19 jobs? Well then, I'll guess I'll have to stop by."

She smiles at me, but doesn't say anything. She is drawn back into Starbucks land and starts to call back drinks. I say a soft goodbye and I swear she smiles at me before I leave. This was definitely a success.

High on my win with Bella, I waited until 9am and called the firm from the billboard and spoke to a frantic sounding receptionist. She blew me off, but gave me the address. I went down to the offices and saw complete chaos. I smiled, cracked my knuckles—another thing I hadn't done since middle school—and jumped right into the melee.

It wasn't until the end of the day that the man in charge, Carlisle Cullen, figured out that he had never actually hired me and pulled me aside.

"What's your name son?" he asked.

"Edward Mason."

I saw recognition light in his eyes for a half a second before it disappeared. "You a lawyer?"

"Yes, sir."

"I can't pay you."

I could tell he was expecting me to make a move. So I said, "We both know I don't need the money."

He smiled then and stuck out his hand, "Well then, welcome aboard. It seems you have already gotten the lay of the land. Any questions?"

When I took his hand I felt a smile on my face that I hadn't felt for years. I looked into Carlisle's eyes, still unable to hold in my smile and asked, "How early do ya'll open?"

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><p><strong>How did you like Edward?<strong>


	3. Out of the Mouths of Ecuadorians

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters belong to the SMeyer. I'm just playing.**

**Just a short look at Bella before the good stuff-_coughLemonscough_-start.**

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><p>Service was done. It was a good night. Ticket times were solid. Well, we got a bit slow in the thick of it, but nothing major. I think there were only 2 trashed pies and only 1 trashed hanger steak. All the apps were solid. Only one sent back plate. No one cut themselves. No one dropped anything. And no one tried to plate dead food. A very good night.<p>

Since I was Swing tonight, I just hung back to do some minor cleaning after Chef left. I ran to the cook's bathroom. The mirror told me that I looked okay. A little sweaty. To be expected when you worked next to a 700-degree wood fire oven. Can I fix it? Not without make up. I think I can work it.

I pull off my hat. Damn health codes. Bun out. Shake head. Flip hair. Fingers. Fluffing. Mirror. It stayed curly in my bun and is doing a nice twisting thing down my back.

I take off my chef jacket. I wore a red tank top underneath tonight. Luckily it was one of my cuter ones. Seriously, somebody up there liked me. I looked down at my pants. Nothing I can do about my Checks. Not like I planned to get asked out by Venti Soy Latte. If I knew I was going to have to get my flirt on with my Starbuck's crush I would have packed a bartending outfit.

Whatever. It's not like he hasn't seen me at 5am.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.

Walk out of the bathroom. Look at the kitchen. The kitchen boyos look at me at me and open their mouths. I stopped them.

"Shut up. Pendejos. You know I'm verga. Fuck you."

They laugh. I knew they would. I walk out of the kitchen to calls of "Baby, baby, baby" and "sexy chica."

They love me, my boys.

The bar is crowded. I figured he'd be there. The dining room closed 45-minutes ago. I hope he is not one of those douches that stays at the table and makes the servers stay late.

I see him.

In the dark of the bar he is some how more beautiful than in the dark of the morning.

One step. Two step. Three step. Four.

Right in front of me. So close. He opens he mouth but I stop him with a smile and a hand. I look over to Angela and out up two fingers. Please, please, please, please let me have a beer before I have to talk to you Venti Soy. Just. Fucking. Please.

Angela, God bless her bartending soul, brings over two Shiners with a smile. "Let's call 'em shifties," she says before she walks back to paying customers.

I lift the bottle to click against his and he complies with a smile. We both take a sip while staring at each other.

With a pop I take the bottle away from my mouth. "My name's Bella."

He smiles, "I know."

I smile too. Bastard. "Do I get to know yours?"

"What do you call me?"

I lean close then. Too close. My lip brush against his cheek. His temple. His ear. Then softly. So, so, softly, I whisper, "Venti Soy Latte."

He didn't laugh. I thought he would laugh. But instead he looks at me with eyes that scream "fuck me." I was hoping my eyes were saying "take me now" when I heard someone yelling from the kitchen.

"Bella! Donde esta la escoba? Fucking shit drop el vidrio. Kill him dead."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Venti Soy Latte laughs and I feel something that I haven't felt in a while. A blush. A fucking blush.

"Shit. I said that out loud, didn't I?"

God, his smile was brighter than a fucking high flame. "I like it," he said. Then he leaned close. Too close. And whispered, "I like you."

Eyes. All eyes, all the time. Eyes and lips and man. I just wanted to grab him and—

"Bella! Chica! Donde?"

We are still incredibly close, "I gotta go and deal with this." I think I whispered it. It was definitely sighy.

"I'll be here."

I pull away from him and back up a few steps before the crowd makes me turn away so I can make my way back toward the kitchen. And there is Sam standing there holding the fucking broom he was asking me for with a shit-eating grin on his face.

With a punch in the arm I say, "Asshole!" His smile fades. In a kitchen curses are thrown around without a thought. "Fuck" is pretty much a preposition. "Shit" is the only way anyone knows to express extreme displeasure. "Douche" is a term of endearment. But the word "asshole" still holds some weight. You can tell a big ass grill guy that you fucked his mother in the ass last night and he'll laugh with you, but call him an asshole and he will stop and think about what he did to deserve it.

"Oh, Bella. Lo siento. You my sexy chica. Quien es el gringo?"

Fuck it, Sam. Out of the mouths of babes. Or, in this case, Ecuadorians. Whatever. The point is there. Who is that gringo? I have no idea who he is. I just know his drink. And he is playing with me. And I let him.

"I don't know, Sam. No se."

I turn away from the kitchen and looked at the bar. He was still there, pulling on the Shiner and waiting for me. I looked at Sam and the kitchen beyond him. I could go and help them clean. Get another beer. Fuck around with the boyos and then go home and go to bed. Normal night. I have to be up soon anyway.

Or I can give this beautiful fucking douche bag a chance. He waited. He's here.

Fuck.


	4. Getting In

****Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters belong to the SMeyer. I'm just playing.****

**Sorry for the long wait! Here is one more look at Edward before the fun begins.**

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><p>I'm not an idiot. I know that the chances of her coming back are not good. She is confident, but she is also as jumpy as a cat. It's like her world moves at warp speed and anything slower does not compute.<p>

I pull on the Shiner she didn't buy me. I can be impulsive. I haven't been in a while, but I can reach back to those hazy college nights and figure out what needs to be done. I made the promise to myself to this morning that today was going to be the day. I was going to get this girl today.

One more pull on the beer and I look for the bartender. She was pretty thing, very exotic looking and running the bar by herself like the crowd wasn't 3 deep. She saw me looking at her and came over teetering on heels that should have impeded any sort of expedited movement.

"One more?" She asked. I could have sworn she was giving me a very calculating look. She was sort of scary actually.

I cleared my throat. "Actually, how many people are in the kitchen right now?"

That calculating look became even more pronounced. "Right now? 8," she paused and then smiled. "If you include Bella, then 9."

"Well then, could I get 10 Shiners? Please? Do you have a bucket or something that you can put them in so they stay cold?"

"I have just the thing." She walked away and I swear she took 10 different orders on her way to fill up a bucket with ice and beer. One the way back I saw her mix 4 drinks, pour 3 beers and 3 glasses of wine. I think it only took her 4 minutes to return to my side of the bar.

She plopped the bucket on top of the bar and pointed at me. "I'll make you a deal, loverboy. You walk out of here with Bella tonight and I will buy these beers. If not, then you better leave me one hell of a tip."

I smiled. "Thanks. Erm, what's your name?"

"Angela, loverboy. The name is Angela."

"Well, Angela. I promise to leave you a big tip no matter what. But if I leave with Bella, I'll match your tips for the night."

Her eyes went wide. I had a feeling that I just shocked a girl who thought herself unshockable. She quickly collected herself and cocked a smile at me. "I'll believe it when I see it, loverboy. Now go try and get the girl."

She walked away and started commanding the bar once more. I grabbed the bright neon orange bucket and followed the path that Bella took to the kitchen. Once I weaved through the crowd I saw that Bella was still standing right beyond the swinging doors to the kitchen talking with a large man with lots of exaggerated hand gestures. I recognized a multi-language conversation when I saw one. The man looked to be speaking Spanish while Bella seemed to be speaking…not Spanish. Mostly hand movements. And facial gestures. And luck.

I tried to knock on the door, but ended up just pushing it in. The movement caused the two of them to turn to me and fall into silence.

The moment was awkward.

"Umm," I lifted up the bucket of beers. " I thought maybe some beer and a pair of extra hands would make closing the kitchen a little easier."

There was still a lot of speechless staring going on. This has seemed to be Bella's MO for most of the night so I thought the hulking gentleman was my best bet of getting into the kitchen. "Cervezas? Voy a secar los platos."

Suddenly there was a spark of recognition in his eyes. "Cerveza? Gratis?" He looks at Bella, then me, then back at Bella. "Tiene que mal, amigo. Entre. Entre."

He takes the bucket from me and turns back to the kitchen and starts speaking Spanish too fast for me to pick up much. I did hear cerveza, though. And that was met with a round of happy cheers. I figured that was a good sign.

I wanted to turn to Bella, but I suddenly found the guy she had been speaking to back by my side with an apron muttering something about "traje," which I think means suit. Well, I did come here straight from Carlisle's place so my outfit is less than kitchen worthy. I throw off my suit jacket and replace it with a bright red apron. I was unceremonieously shoved to the dishwasher, supplied with some sort of lint free towel and told to dry the racks as they come out the machine.

I was in.

Bella was still staring at me with an open mouth. I just smiled and started to dry dishes. She really did do a lot of staring. It would be annoying if it wasn't so damned cute. She snapped out of it when one of the guys brought her a beer and a white jacket. She threw the jacket on first, grabbed the beer, and then started to deftly move around the kitchen. She did her fair share of cleaning, but what I found most impressive was that she directed the older and bigger guys with a sense of humor and confidence that made it seem like she wasn't directing them at all.

But by God, her Spanish was horrible. It was this strange mixture of Spanish words, English grammar, and curses in a variety of languages. Yet, the guys seem to understand and even find it endearing. It seemed like everytime she turned her back they smiled slightly before getting back to work.

I don't now how long it usually takes to close down a kitchen, but in the time it took for me and the guys in the dishpit to finish our beers everything was shut down. The guys looked happy and Bella was smiling while participating in some good natured ribbing. She kept glancing over at me as the guys started to file out of the kitchen.

We were alone. In a clean kitchen. Nothing in between us. Not an espresso machine, not a kitchen full of Equdorains, and not a bartender. Just us.

This is my moment. I'll ask her to go back out to the bar and then maybe we can talk, get to know each other…

And then I wasn't thinking at all. Because Bella was kissing me.

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><p><strong>Yay!<strong>


	5. Deserve It

Beers. Beers. Beers. BEERS.

He brought my crew beers. No faster way to a line cook's heart then free booze. I was staring. Again. I couldn't stop it. This guy. He just. Ugh. He is messing up my flow. Killing my cool. Completely fucking up my _Mise en Place_.

Deep breath. Someone hands me a beer. Chef's jacket. I let the familiar weight of the white cotton calm me. Bring me back to reality. One more deep breath.

I'm back.

Kitchen. Shut down. Embry is half-assing the oven sweep. Call him a pussy and we clean it together. Paul is going to cut off his finger if he cleans the slicer like that. Go over to his station, call him a puta and show him how to keep all his fingers. While the guys' sweep and mop, I check their stations. Check the out dates, consolidate, label. The boyos are getting better at lowboy organization.

Last check of the kitchen. Clean. Answer "Estamos bien?" with an "Adios."

And then we're alone.

There he is. The beautiful boy whose name I don't know who brought my crews beers and stayed to dry dishes. Standing there in a red apron and over a suit. I heard him joking with the boyos while I was cleaning. His spanish was good. He had a sense of humor. He makes my heart race and my world slow. He makes me forget that I haven't slept in 2 years. Makes me forget my plans. Makes me forget my schedule. Just makes me forget.

Before I know what I'm doing I have him pushed against the dishwasher and my lips are on his.

Fucking heaven.

He was shocked. I was shocked. But it only took him a second to respond. His hands were around my waist and holding me close enough to feel all of him through my Whites.

I thought I moaned the word "fuck" when I fell against his body. I knew I did when he groaned into my mouth and flipped us so I was against the machine. It was still warm from the dishes but it was nothing compared to the man whose hands were now roughly unbuttoning my jacket. Those hands made their way under my tank top at the same time as his lips began to kiss down my neck. When his teeth brush against the skin right below my ear I let out another moan that I was pretty sure Angela could hear out in the bar.

Part of my mind was telling me to stop. That I was in the kitchen of a resturant being felt up by a man that I barely—and by "barley" I mean "don't"—know.

That part was small. Insignificant. The dominant part was mostly screaming that this was the best I've felt in 2 years. Alive. Awake. Excited. The type of feeling I get during a Friday night rush working sautee. I couldn't ask him to stop. So instead I hitched a leg around his waist and pushed his harder against me. His lips were still making the tour of my neck when his right hand palmed my left breast over my tank top. As if that wasn't enough, his left hand traveled up the thigh around his waist, getting dangerously close to what I was sure was a telling dampness.

I could feel myself breathing heavily into his ear and reached my tongue out to lave at his earlobe. It was his turn to moan. He brought his lips back to mine for a searing kiss that I felt all the way down to toes. My bones. My girly bits. My…the thing that beats in my chest.

He started to back off a bit. Slowing down the kiss and moving his hand slowly out from under my jacket. I felt it and tried to stop it. I brought his mouth back to mine and kissed him with all I had. Tongue, lips, teeth. It worked. His hands got bolder and so did mine. As one hand reached around his back to untie his bright red apron the other reached underneath. I lightly brushed against his thigh, his hip, his waist. Just as my hand was traveling back down to a very specific location Venti Soy ripped his mouth away from mine and shifted his hips away from my wandering hands.

I would have been insulted, but he kept his forehead pressed to mine and I could still feel his breath on my lips and his eyes were looking directly into mine. I wanted to take this time to think all of this through, but felt as if someone had reached into my brain and taken out anything that resembled coherent thought. It wasn't just because of the kiss—although that was certainly one reason for it—but for the first time in 2 years I just _felt_.

It was weird. It was nice. It was short-lived.

Shit. This was bad. Like really bad. Did I just try and grab his dick? IN MY KITCHEN? Oh God, oh God, oh God. I let him feel me up. AGAINST THE DISHWASHER. I'm going to get fired. I'm never going to make Executive Chef by the time I'm 30. I'm never going to be able to show them how wrong they were about me. I'm never going to…

"Hey! Bella. Come back to me." Venti Soy Latte's hand gently came up to cup my chin. "Where did you go just now?"

Where did I just go? I've never had to explain my thought process to anyone before and I'm not really sure I have the words. So instead I let my eyes meet his and said the only thing that came to mind at that moment. "What's your name?"

His smile was blinding. "Edward. My name is Edward."

I wanted to run away screaming. I wanted to push him back against the dishwasher. I wanted to transfer to a different Starbucks so I didn't have to be tempted by him everyday. I wanted to take him home. I wanted to forget my crazy schedule and just lose myself in whatever this is.

I looked at his smile again. His eyes. The stubble that was lightly coloring his jaw. Maybe I could lose myself in him. For tonight at least. I deserve tonight.

My eyes met his. His stupidly green eyes that were still smiling down at me.

Ah, fuck it. I _do_ deserve it.

"Well, Edward. Do you want to get out of here?"

* * *

><p><strong>Any thoughts? I'd love to know what you think!<strong>


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